Confession
by Petals Open to the Moon
Summary: .. I need a hurting heart. And you are in so much pain, my love. No. I shouldn't call you "my love " I shouldn't call you anything. You are not real. You don't exist. You are the figment of a thousand imaginations..." A confession from the author, to her Dark Angel. One-shot.


**Something I found in my Word files, while cleaning up some things. I finished it. :) **

**To Aro of the Volturi, though you could place whomever you wish between the lines. Reviews are great. ^^**

* * *

You will never read this. I have made sure of it.

This will not be a document when it reaches you. It will be in the form of a letter, sealed and stamped neatly. Because I know you like it that way.

I like to think I know all about you. But you are not real. You don't exist. Your birth was invented.

This is a stupid idea, though I'm following through. For your eyes will never look upon the letter, nor will your fingers crease the worn, ugly handwriting. Ugly because it is misshapen. Misshapen because ink blots are born from tears.

(Yes. I'm begin poetic. You might as well get used to it.)

I never cry for myself. I need a hurting heart first. And you are in so much pain, my love.

I shouldn't call you "my love." I shouldn't call you anything. You are not real. You don't exist. You are the figment of a thousand imaginations.

Can I compliment you? Is that permissible? I never tire of doing so. I trace you in my agonies, praise you in my tragedies.

I start from any point on your body; it doesn't matter. These are my favorite imaginings.

Your hands. The perfect place to begin. I work my way down, past feminine fingers, to an even more feminine wrist. I lower your arm, then, dropping down on my knees. Like sinking into a sweet sleep.

You let me do this. The dream you.

I praise your feet. You laugh at me, your shoes off, but I'm a little delirious now. They are rather small for a man, given your height, but I worship their form. I kiss each and every toe. You laugh out loud suddenly, partially to hide a moan. You're not very ticklish, but the sensation pleases you. I suck gently on your instep. You direct me along your ankles and calves, and the beautiful, hidden spot behind your knee.

You are not unclothed. Or maybe you are, but it doesn't matter. Angels needn't show their wings to give joy to others.

Your waist is trim and perfect in your tailored clothing. Clothing which is terribly out of date, Imagined One, but I don't mind. I am a poet, and I live in the past.

You live in the past, too.

I kiss each of jutting point of your pelvic bone, the shadows underneath slightly bluish. Your navel is a bizarre delight for me, and you laugh as I wriggle a curious finger inside. You're not ticklish here, but I'm tickled by touching you.

Muscles. Definition. Form at its sweetest perfection. You have it all, and I haven't strength to go on… until my fingers find your face, trembling and wondering.

Trembling for _you. _Wondering about _you. _

That is not just a word for me now. _You _define it, and _you _alone.

I begin to trace your lips, sending tiny fires igniting all over my skin, but you quench them with a sad look in your eyes. You don't want me to go on, and I don't know why.

(This isn't really happening. You are an Imagined One. Please help me to stop.)

Time stops, but nothing else. Your hands settle kindly on my waist, lifting me up to sit on your knee. I drop my arms, and let your fingers circle _my _face instead. Trace _my _lips. My heart is singing loudly against your chest, but I can't understand the words.

You look like death. Sad and bereft of… of something…

Does it break your heart, to see me this way, so helpless? Am _I _breaking it?

You won't ask me for help, if I am. You never were one to ask for help, my love.

There. I said it again. "My love." God, I love to say it. I would love to watch you, my love, when you hear me say it, and hear you say it back to me. I cannot say "love" enough. It tastes so sweet. You taste even sweeter, this dream you. Why wake? Why live? Why breathe, if it hurts…

(You're gone now. It really was imagined.)

I dream of you every night. I have to, you see. For you are not real. You do not exist. You are the keeper of my soul, the morning I wake up happy, the cradle that rocks my sick, broken, fragile little heart.

I will call you what I wish, when I wish. I need to, or I will go mad.

Mad… like you.

Like _you. _

_I love you. _


End file.
